‘You did,’ agreed Ravachol. ‘I just had no idea that it would cause so much trouble.’
‘Do not worry about it, Pallas,’ said Malevolus. ‘I have already contacted Adept Chrom and this mess will all be sorted out soon.’
‘Adept Chrom?’ asked Ravachol fearfully. ‘Why?’
‘What you have uncovered has more ramifications than you might imagine, Pallas,’ replied Malevolus as they made their way towards a heavily guarded door of brushed steel and bronze. The mighty door rolled aside on cogged locking teeth and Malevolus indicated that he should pass through.
Ravachol was about to ask about these ramifications as he stepped into a colossal chamber hung with tens of thousands of suits of Astartes battle plate and all questions died in his throat. The room was brightly lit and the cold illumination reflected dazzlingly from the unpainted suits of armour. Their silver brilliance reminded Ravachol of the crumbling records of Old Earth and the tales of warriors who had ridden into battle on the backs of animals. The idea made Ravachol smile as Malevolus entered the chamber and set off towards its far end.
‘I’ve never seen so many Mark IV suits,’ said Ravachol. ‘It must be an awe inspiring sight to see these worn by the Astartes.’
‘I imagine so,’ nodded Malevolus. ‘Of course, we are only about halfway through the general issue of the Mark IV. And as you might imagine, there have been difficulties in getting some of the more… traditionally minded Legions to abandon the old “Iron Suits”.’
‘The Armorum Ferrum? But why? I thought the Astartes complained that Mark III armour was too clumsy and uncomfortable for everyday battle use.’
‘It is,’ agreed Malevolus, ‘But it is the most visually brutal of all Astartes armour patterns and some Legions relish that brutality and wish to retain it as a uniform for ceremonial guards or speartip assault units.’
‘But Mark IV is by far the better armour,’ protested Ravachol, unable to follow the logic of the Space Marines. He supposed he would never understand the Astartes, and had even heard rumours that they were soon to be classified as a different species, so far removed from the original human genome were they.
As he looked up at the hanging suits of armour and returned his gaze to the massively augmented form of Adept Malevolus, he wondered if the Astartes thought the same thing of the Mechanicum.
‘There will be consequences you cannot possibly imagine as a result of what you have set in motion,’ said the Master Adept as Ravachol hurried to return to the adept’s side. The servitor jogged alongside him, its heavy footfalls echoing from the far walls.
‘In retrospect, it was foolish of me to allow you to leave for Chrom’s temple, but hindsight is a wonderful thing, is it not?’ continued Malevolus.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Ravachol.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Malevolus. ‘You don’t need to understand, but while we have some time, allow me to show you what has been the recent focus of my forge’s work.’
‘I would be honoured,’ said Ravachol. ‘To see the handiwork of a Master Adept, well, that’s something I never expected to see for at least another century’
‘Quite,’ said Malevolus, ‘but these are exceptional times are they not? Some leeway can be allowed for, I think.’
Ravachol followed Malevolus as he led the way through the silent ranks of armoured figures to the furthest end of the chamber where a tall black cylinder stood atop a stepped dais of red marble threaded with veins of gold and silver.
Malevolus climbed the steps and one of his probe robots swooped towards the black cylinder, its glowing eye flipping up and a whirring key emerging from the socket. The key slid into the cylinder, though Ravachol could see no visible keyhole. The floating robot backed away from the cylinder and flew behind Malevolus as it began to hum.
The blackness swirled and began to bleed out of the cylinder, sinking into the dais like a cloud of ink in water. Gradually, the contents of the cylinder became visible as its surface turned from opaque to translucent and finally to transparency. Ravachol gasped in awe as he saw the most wondrously exquisite suit of Tactical Dreadnought Armour he had ever seen.
More massively proportioned than Mark IV armour, its limbs were constructed from heavy gauge plasteel plating and painted midnight black. Gold and bronze edged the armour and Ravachol could clearly see that the most skilled craftsmen on Mars had worked upon every aspect of this armour.
Gold studs edged the shoulder guards and a belt of agate and bronze drew the eye towards the centre of the breastplate where sat a glaring amber eye flanked by snarling wolves of gold. The high gorget radiated a red light and a thick wolf pelt hung from the shoulders.
Ravachol climbed the steps and stood before the towering suit of armour. Just being close to a work of art like this was intoxicating, and not a little frightening. Ravachol reached a hand out to touch the burnished plates, his hand shaking even though the suit was unoccupied. The plasteel was cold to the touch, but Ravachol felt a faint tremor run through the armour, as though the machine spirit within lay dreaming of the wars it would fight. He looked up towards where the wearer’s head would be and shivered, suddenly afraid of this terrifyingly brutal suit of armour.
‘It is the zenith of my career,’ said Malevolus proudly. ‘I shall never craft anything so perfect as this again.’
‘It’s… singular,’ said Ravachol, backing away from the armour, which now held nothing but dread for him. Something in its hulking form spoke to him of the oceans of blood that would be spilled by whoever wore this armour and he knew that it had been designed to intimidate as much as protect. ‘Who was it built for?’
Malevolus smiled. ‘It is for the Warmaster.’
RAVACHOL FELT A surge of fear as he looked into the trio of glowing eyes beneath Malevolus’s hood. The Master Adept dwarfed him and the realisation that he had made a terrible error in coming here was a knot of sickness in his belly.
‘Horus?’ breathed Ravachol.
‘The very same,’ said Malevolus. ‘It is to be shipped to the Isstvan system any day now. But it is time to end this, Pallas, don’t you think? You gave us quite a scare when you fled from Adept Chrom’s Protectors. We had no idea what you might try to do, and our pact with the Warmaster was too important to allow a lowly third class adept to disrupt it. I told you there would be ramifications did I not?’
‘You are disobeying the commands of the Emperor…’ said Ravachol.
‘Oh, we’re doing much more than that, my dear Pallas, much more, but even though your little jaunt is now over, I shan’t be explaining it to you. Suffice to say, the Emperor’s time is passed and a new order is dawning for the galaxy.’
‘A new order?’ said Ravachol, backing away from Malevolus. ‘This is heresy! Betrayal! The Emperor is—’
‘The Emperor is finished,’ snapped Malevolus. ‘He shackles our advancement with absurd restrictions on what we may and may not research and then demands we supply his forces with weapons and war materiel. Where was the Emperor when Old Night engulfed Mars? No, when the Emperor’s conquest of the galaxy is finished he will turn on us and take our technologies for himself. We are his vassals, nothing more.’
Ravachol felt a mounting horror at his former master’s words, now understanding that his uncovering of these… traitors’ work on the Kaban project was just the beginning, that it represented treachery on a scale he could barely comprehend.
‘I won’t let you do it,’ he said. ‘I won’t let you drag the Mechanicum into treason.’
‘You won’t let us?’ laughed Malevolus. ‘My dear boy, it’s already begun.’
Ravachol swallowed and said, ‘Then you leave me no choice. Servitor, destroy him!’
The last servitor braced itself and its shoulder mounted plasma discharger swivelled to face the Master Adept. Its energy coils whined as it built up power and a series of targeting lasers reflected from Malevolus’s bronze facemask.
Before the servitor could open fire, a shower of
blinding white fire and oil-laced blood fountained from its shoulder and Ravachol threw himself away from the cyborg as it let out a mechanical screech of distress. The oil ignited in the heat and the entire right side of the servitor burst into flames.
Ravachol saw the skimming form of the tech-priest assassin looping through the air above him, her sword trailing a thin line of burning plasma. The flaming servitor struggled to bring its targeting augers to bear on the assassin, but without its weapon it was next to useless.
Ravachol watched as the deadly assassin spun down towards the servitor and skimmed across the floor. The burning servitor thrashed as its reduced battle capacities forced it to engage in close combat with the speeding assassin. Its remaining arm bore an energy-sheathed gauntlet and it staggered forward to defend its master. Ravachol set off at a run towards the chamber’s hopelessly distant exit as the assassin flickered over the dying servitor, easily avoiding its clumsy swipe and removing its head with a casual flick of her sword.
Ravachol wept as he fled, knowing he could not possibly outpace the assassin, but running anyway. He ran past the glittering suits of armour, wishing that they might step down from their racks and defend him from this treachery.
With each pounding step he expected a sword in the back or a pistol shot to punch him from his feet. The door was drawing nearer and he threw a panicked glance over his shoulder, seeing Adept Malevolus and the assassin standing over the blazing remains of the battle servitor.
Why are they not giving chase?
Ravachol put the question from his mind as he fled through the silver halls of his former master, mnemonic training allowing him to faultlessly retrace the path he had trod to reach this place of betrayal. Numerous adepts and lowly techs gave him curious glances as he ran past them, heading towards the great gates that led from the temple, but he paid them no heed as he sought to escape.
At last he came to the gates where he had claimed Sanctuary, now realising his folly in believing that Malevolus would respect such an ancient right, now that the Mechanicum was engaged in treachery. The great steel gates were open, the eagles etched upon their surfaces now seeming like the grossest insult, and Ravachol ran out into the heat of the Martian night.
And skidded to a halt as he saw the Kaban machine before him.
‘HELLO, PALLAS,’ SAID the Kaban machine. ‘It is good to see you again.’
Ravachol saw that the machine was mobile at last, the spherical body now mounted on its wide, track unit. The machine towered above him, its thick, weapon arms pointed skyward and its silver, cable arms gently drifting in the air above it like poised snakes. Its sensor blisters shone with a soft amber light and as much as he wanted to keep running, an inner voice told him that to do so would be the death of him.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked warily.
‘I came to find you, Pallas,’ replied the machine.
‘Why,’ said Ravachol.
‘I thought we were friends,’ said the machine.
Ravachol’s mind raced. Had the machine escaped from Adept Chrom’s temple and come to find him in the way animals were said to seek a lost owner?
‘We are friends!’ cried Ravachol. ‘Yes, we are most definitely friends.’
‘Then why do you wish me destroyed?’
‘Destroyed? No, I never said that!’
The machine’s sensor blisters pulsed an angry red. ‘You believe I am dangerous and do not believe I should exist. To not exist is death and I do not wish to die. I do not deserve to die.’
Ravachol raised his hands pleadingly before him and said, ‘Now, you have to understand I was simply concerned over what you represent.’
‘Adept Chrom told me what you and he talked about,’ growled the machine. ‘He told me that you believe I am illegal and wrong.’
‘Well, in some respects… you are,’ said Ravachol, hoping to appeal to the machine’s sense of reason. ‘The Emperor forbade research into artificial sentience.’
‘But following your logic inevitably leads to my destruction,’ said the machine. ‘And that I cannot allow. It is the right and nature of every intelligent being to defend itself from harm.’
Ravachol backed away from the Kaban machine as he saw Adept Lukas Chrom step from behind its bulk, now understanding why Malevolus and the assassin had allowed him to escape from the temple.
They wanted to see if the Kaban machine would destroy him…
He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see his former master at the iron gates. Malevolus nodded and the massive pistons to either side hissed and groaned, pulling the gleaming gate shut.
Ravachol dropped to his knees and looked up as the Kaban machine rolled towards him, its weapons whining as they built power. Adept Chrom walked alongside the machine and Ravachol said, ‘Then do it. I cannot stop you. But what you are doing will not go unpunished.’
Chrom shook his head. ‘In this galaxy there are neither punishment nor rewards, Adept Ravachol, only consequences.’
‘Then I hope the consequences of your betrayal are worth what it will cost Mars.’
‘That will be for the Warmaster to decide,’ said Chrom, nodding towards the Kaban machine.
Ravachol looked into the glowing sensory blisters of the machine and saw nothing but the cold, incalculable mystery of a brain that had no right to exist and would one day turn on its masters as it was even now turning on him.
‘Goodbye, Pallas,’ said the machine, aiming its weapons at him.
He closed his eyes and his world ended in fire.
Graham McNeill, The Kaban Project
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